Mine
by MadAboutStories
Summary: A chance discovery by Dr Watson reveals the past of Sherlock Holmes- a past that was desired to remain in the shadows. Come and see such a past, a past filled with secrets, lies...and, to a lesser extent, exactly why Sherlock Holmes plays the violin.
1. Prologue: Cleaning Up The Mess

**A/N: Hi everyone! After recently watching the Sherlock Holmes film (which was absolutely brilliant!), I decided to dip into its fanfiction area and started to write something. I'm not sure how long it'll take me to finish it as my main priorities are my Lion King fanfictions but I will complete it. And to be clear, all characterisation etc is based on the 2009 film, not the book(s)/TV series. I hope you enjoy!

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_Prologue- Cleaning Up The Mess_

"Holmes, you have _got _to be kidding me."

Dr Watson and the infamous Sherlock Holmes stood in an exceedingly cluttered room (actually, it rather resembled something that had bared the brunt of numerous, gigantic bombs) filled with the endless "experiments" and random devices that the detective used when having no case to solve. The man seemed quite amused at his good friend's frustrated outburst, that small, unique smirk of his playing delicately on his thin lips, much to the Doctor's increasing annoyance.

"Oh, come now, my dear Watson," Holmes replied good naturedly, taking an elegant drag on his overly used pipe. "All it needs is a little...elbow grease."

An indignant laugh escaped Watson as he slammed his suitcase onto an oak wooden table placed hastily into the centre of the small room. A year ago, he had been married to his loving wife Mary and soon after, they bought a quaint house far from London's hustle and bustle, in the pleasant English countryside. Now, the Doctor decided it was high time to visit his friend properly, not just a fleeting chat, after arguing quite insistently with Mary on the matter. She still did not quite approve of his association with the man but she soon agreed that as long as he didn't have to go with him, his departure wouldn't be frowned upon.

"One week, no more," she told him almost grimly after kissing Watson affectionately on the cheek.

"I didn't realise you had enough useless stuff to fill yet another room," he said to Holmes, rolling his eyes.

His friend crossed his arms defiantly in much the same fashion of a young school boy who couldn't get his own way. "Not so, Watson, not so!" he protested, half running towards a discarded bundle of peculiar metal looking contraptions. He picked up one, which looked exactly like a compass, expect it was a touch bigger and instead of a sharp metal point finishing the small instrument, it was rounded off into a smooth circle. "Why, this little device I discovered by accident only just this morning; when placed between a door frame and a door it allows one to listen to a conversation between such a door silently, without the said persons knowing or hearing the door being being pushed slightly ajar! And here, we've got-"

"Alright, Holmes, alright," Watson half sighed, holding his hand up in the way a policeman would to stop traffic, "I'll take your word for it." Still, he couldn't help smiling at the little sparkle that appeared on the detective's dark eyes which only made itself known when he was extremely excited or pleased about his work. Holmes seemed rather reluctant to stop his extravagant descriptions of his inventions but he obliged, taking off his black waistcoat with a flourish and then rolling the sleeves of his (well, it actually was one of Watson's "borrowed" items of clothing) shirt back.

"We'd best get started sprucing your place up a bit. Shall we?"

Pleasantly surprised, Watson replied amiably, "You still think of it as my old room, then?"

To that, Sherlock Holmes clapped him happily on the shoulder. "Now, old chap, you know it as well as I: this will _always _be your room."

* * *

Watson carefully dislodged another bulging drawer, stuffed with old and decaying scribbles, which were all quick sketches and deductions from Holmes own hand. Before the afternoon was up, he had managed to persuade his reluctant friend to discard of materials such as these; they were going to be no good for him in future cases. He finally agreed- sort of: "Have it your way Watson- but if you see anything that you think might be of use- _anything_- you keep it, okay?"

Stifling a yawn, Watson tipped the contents of the drawer into the roaring fire, watching with satisfaction as the flames greedily licked and devoured the mess. The "sprucing up" of his old room had gone well into the evening and he near groaned when he heard the small, golden clock on the mantelpiece strike eleven. Getting ready to shove the drawer back into it's proper place, Watson lifted the slightly heavy object up only to drop it again as a small, discarded piece of paper fluttered out.

The man paused as he watched it fall lightly onto the wooden floorboards and he had half a mind to chuck the blasted thing into the fire where everything else had went, but for some inexplainable reason, he didn't. Instead, he turned it over and noticed it seemed to be an old, extremely grimy photograph. It was so dirty, in fact, that the doctor could only just make out the outline of a head, and that was all.

Glad of the distraction from cleaning, Watson tried to get into the mind of his friend and figure out what the item meant. Hmm- crumpled up- obviously quite old, frayed at the edges...which meant it hadn't been handled with much care, it wasn't of importance...the dirt covering it added to it's age...but it had been hidden in the very back of a drawer which meant...which meant...

Damn. Holmes was so much better at it than he was, despite the advice the detective always readily gave him about fathoming even the most complicated of events. Ah, well, Watson thought, probably better just to ask him; he can't be too busy-

Oh, wait. The noise of that infernal violin reached his tired ears. And Holmes hated to be interuppted while playing it, he would probably be more angry if you stopped him mid flow in music rather than stopping him mid flow in solving a gruesome murder. And the most infuriating thing was that Watson could only complain about Sherlock's playing the instrument at night, not the noise that came out of it. Whatever Holmes knew about violins, he could not say, but the sound that he managed to coax out of it really was lovely- he couldn't argue about that.

Well, Holmes would just have to deal with being forced to stop playing his violin. This photograph was in Watson's way of having a good night's sleep. With that, he stood up and briskly walked down the corridor, nearly colliding with Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he apologised quickly, dodging out of the way.

"No need," she replied kindly, smoothing out her apron. "Are you going to see Mr Holmes, though? 'Just, you know how he loathes it when-"

"I think he'll survive," Watson laughed quietly. "I know him well."

The lady smiled. "We both think that but I think the only living thing on this earth who _really_ knows him is that dog of his."

Watson laughed properly then, and excused himself, but he still couldn't help wondering if perhaps Mrs Hudson was right...No matter, he was at Holmes' bedroom door and without knocking, he entered.

The man was facing the window, the heavy curtains open, letting the heavenly glow of the moonlight wash over the room. Those long, clever fingers of his moved expertly up and down the strings of the violin and the phrases of some sort of slow, almost like a love song but not quite, did not falter. He didn't turn round to acknowladge his comrade.

"Not now, Watson," he said firmly but not nastily, "This piece requires immense concentration..." The violin was silent for a few brief seconds as Holmes swore mildly. "Where was I? Ah, yes..."

"It won't take long, I was only wondering what this wa-"

"Can't it wait 'till morning?"

"Well...yes, I suppose but-"

"Splendid!" Holmes exclaimed and Watson was sure that he was grinning, despite him only being able to view the back of his head. "Good night, Watson!"

The doctor sighed but wasn't that angry at all. He closed the door gently and slipped the photograph into his trouser pocket. Perhaps it could wait until the morning.


	2. Chapter 1: A Concealed Wound

**A/N: ...Yeah, I couldn't resist posting another chapter; this film is so good! And, just to remind you all, I haven't read any of the Sherlock Holmes book(s) or watched the old TV Series, all characterisation is based on the 2009 film, starring Robert Downy Jr and Jude Law etc And **_italics _**represent a character's unspoken thoughts.****

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_Chapter 1- A Concealed Wound_

Three- precisely three- short, clean raps on the door caused Sherlock Holmes to wake from his normal light slumber. His head snapped up from his chest abruptly and he shifted himself in the armchair quickly (which he frequently dosed off in, instead of the bed) as Mrs Hudson called to him from behind the closed bedroom door:

"Mr Holmes! That's your breakfast ready!"

The man stretched but made not a sound, then stood up and realised the bow that he used before he fell asleep was still held loosely in his hands. But wait- he practically threw himself unto the floor, on all fours, his breathing now catching alarmingly in his throat. _Where was the **violin?**_

"Are you awake, Mr Holmes?"

_Ah, better come up with some cutting retort or she'll suspect something's wrong...which it is. _"No, I'm asleep, Mrs Hudson, thanks for checking," he shouted back to the middle aged woman. _Bugger...not nearly sarcastic enough..._

As suspected, Sherlock heard the shrewd reply of his "nanny" almost instantly. "Mr Holmes, what are you-"

And before he could stop her, the door was flung open, revealing Mrs Hudson with a most suspicious expression plastered on her face. The detective stiffened and tried his best to act as if randomly crawling around on the floor was a normal thing to do. For some reason, the woman saw through this (as she always did, which infuriated him to a small extent), sighed and said in a tone close to weariness, "Alright, sir...what have you lost?"

Holmes tried to laugh but the sound got stuck somewhere between his throat and lips, making it appear unnatural and strangled. "Nothing, nothing," he said hastily, standing up and brushing himself down rapidly. The fake smile that he forced himself to put on made his cheek bones ache to no end.

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows in a manner so similar to his own that he near burst out laughing properly. "Have it your way, sir," she replied. "But be downstairs soon; I did not slave in the kitchen all morning for your breakfast to go cold."

An unexpected twang of slight sympathy made itself known in Holmes' chest as Mrs Hudson dutifully turned and exited. This was soon replaced by a considerably more stronger emotion- and a much more unpleasant one. Fear radiated from him- not quite on the same scale as when he was sure Death had ensnared Watson during _that_ explosion, but it was still so significant, so real, so haunting, so...

_No, not under the armchair._ Shuffle shuffle. _Or there...perhaps here?_ Shuffle. _No..think, Sherlock, think!_

There was a low whining noise from behind him. "Gladstone!" he hissed, glancing over his shoulder, "Can't you see I'm...oh."

The dog stared at him with a most accusing look all while he held the sacred like instrument between his slobbering jaws. Relief seeping into him, Holmes gratefully held out a hand as Gladstone gently dropped the violin into it. Holmes inspected it immediately, scanning every curve in the mood with immense scrutiny and being "pleased" was such an obvious understatement, it was a crime. There was not a single scratch, not even the tiniest on the violin and, which was a miracle, absolutely no trace of his dog's saliva.

Sherlock Holmes looked up again at Gladstone and gave him a rare but affectionate pat on the head. "Good lad," he told him briefly , before practically running down the stairs, taking two at a time.

* * *

Watson, almost automatically, like he did with Mary, cleaned his plate and gave it to Mrs Hudson. The woman tutted but couldn't help smiling. "Now, Mr Watson-"

"Doctor!" Holmes corrected her quickly, still scraping a thick wad of bread in the remains of his cooked breakfast. He leant back in the chair casually, making the aging furniture groan in protest, one of Mrs Hudson's many pet hates and he knew it.

She only rolled her eyes, however, used to his "childlike antics" as she labelled them. She hadn't considered the fact that maybe Holmes' was showing how much he thought of her by being his usual, "pestering" self...but his mind was an enigma and dealing with such complex physicological matters was definitely not in her job description. "_Doctor_ Watson, then. You're the guest, remember, not I."

And then, in a remarkable change of tone that made Watson feel like chuckling, she snapped at Sherlock Holmes, "Have you decided to finish any time soon?"

The man raised his hands in the way one would when cornered by an army of police men but still handed his empty plate to Mrs Hudson. "The food was...adequate," he drawled but his lips turned up at the corners as he said it.

Mrs Hudson made a huffing noise but made her way to the kitchen with the dishes, exiting the dining room.

Watson went to stand but stopped half way when he heard a familiar rustling noise in his trouser pocket. He then remembered the photograph that was heavily obscured by time still lay there and with a swift movement, he fished it out from his pocket. "Holmes?" he enquired, noticing he was still leaning back, relaxing in his chair.

"Mmm?"

"I just found this lying in a drawer last night." His friend rose his eyebrows in interest so he placed the photograph onto the table. For a space in time that was less than a second, he thought he saw Holmes stiffen but then again, it was probably a trick of the light or something. You never could be sure if you brushed shoulders with Sherlock Holmes.

"It's not of... _great _importance to me," Holmes said very slowly, pronouncing each word heavily. His expression remained neautral which always frustrated Watson.

"Do you want me to throw it away, then?" he probed further.

And suddenly, the doctor managed to get a severe flash arise in Holmes' eyes for all to brief a moment. "No," he replied surprisingly sharply.

Taken aback, but not deterred, Watson questioned, "Well, where do you want it?"

Holmes wasn't looking at him now, he was examining the tabletop was if it was the most amazing thing on the Earth. "Oh, I don't know Watson," he stated with a hard, cold edge to his voice, "Just don't throw it away."

Even though his being was burning with mere curiosity, Watson could sense something that had been...awoken in Holmes. The atomosphere had changed so dramatically in the last few minutes and the Doctor didn't like it in the slightest. Without a reply, he left the room, travelling back upstairs, but not before he had taken the photograph with him, not before he had quickly whisked it off the table.

Holmes still sat there, no longer smiling, no longer leaning back in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his noise uncomfortably and exhaled, trying to keep his calm "mask" from sliding off his face. Watson did not know it, but he had unintentionally opened an excrutiatingly painful wound that he had tried to conceal and hide, despite it not being healed.

It was going to take most of the detective's rapidly diminishing self control to cover it up once more.


	3. Chapter 2: All It Takes Is A Reminder

**A/N: ... I haven't read any of the Sherlock Holmes book(s) or watched the old TV Series, all characterisation is based on the 2009 film, starring Robert Downy Jr and Jude Law etc And **_italics _**represent a character's unspoken thoughts...or in this case...oh, just read. ;) Hope you enjoy!****

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_Chapter 2- All It Takes Is A Reminder_

Watson trudged slowly up the staircase, hand lightly on the banister. He noticed every painful creak each step made as his foot pressed down onto it, and his mind was still unsettled. He was one of the fortunate (or, he thought with the tiniest of smiles, unfortunate, depending on which way you looked at it) people who did...almost fully know Sherlock Holmes. _Almost_ being the operative word. Perhaps yesterday, the Doctor could've said, with a small amount of confidence, that he did, indeed, know the Detective fully.

But his friend's actions that took place only five minutes ago said otherwise.

Watson expected _unexpected_ behaviour from Holmes; it was what the man was all about. Without his "eccentric" mannerisms, he wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes and it was highly possible that he wouldn't be as great a detective without his unusual...quirks. But...the way he had reacted just then- it was...

Unnatural. That was the word he was searching for. And what specifically unnerved Watson was how harshly Holmes had spoken to him, with that sudden, never seen before, steely glint in his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes did do things that annoyed him beyond belief...things like, stealing his clothes, for instance. Or practising the violin constantly. Or becoming so immersed in a particular case that it overcame the man's desire to eat or drink.

But, the one thing John Watson always relied on was the Holmes would never speak to him like the way he would speak to a hardened criminal. Today, however, his friend had done just that and Watson knew it must have been _something_ that concerned the photograph. _What _he could not say.

And then, the Doctor stopped at the same moment he reached the top of the staircase. Maybe he _could _say. It would take time, of course, and bucketfuls of patience but now was the moment to act. Holmes was downstairs- he could not see him.

So, instead of going to "his" room, Watson turned and made his way down the corridor, to Sherlock Holmes' place of "rest." "Place of Bloody Pointless Experiments" would be a much more fitting name, in Watson's opinion.

Opening the door in a more cautious manner than was necessary, he was met with the sight of a dozing Gladstone who immediately became alert when Watson gave a single glance in the dog's direction. The pet made a quiet growling noise, to which the Doctor replied, "Have no fear, I don't have any anaesthetics on me."

With that, he began filing through the miscellenous things in Sherlock Holmes room- not an easy feat or a wise one, either. Aha! Watson held a little, metal scalpel in his hand triumphantly. _There _was the little blighter! Scalpel in hand, he moved back to the door frame, stepping over an interested looking Gladstone in the process. Before exiting, he said directly to the dog, "You saw nothing, alright?" Thus, the door was shut.

Now, yes, now was the important part. Going to his room, Watson closed his door properly, sat down at a considerably large writing desk and placed the photograph on top of it. Ever so carefully, Watson began to scrape away the grime covering up the identity of the person in the picture was Holmes' very own scalpel.

* * *

_Distraction, distraction...I **need **a distraction._

"Ah, Mrs Hudson!" he cried near joyfully, waltzing into the kitchen. "Need a hand with that?"

The woman was in the middle of washing the dishes and she observed him with a mixture of mild shock and even stronger suspicion. "Are you feeling alright, Mr Holmes?" she asked him quite seriously.

To that, the detective let out a loud bark of laughter and it took everything to stop his voice from trembling. _Get a hold of yourself, man!_ Taking hold of a white plate, he went to wash it but for some reason the object slipped from his fingers and fell, bits of sharp china flying to random ends of the kitchen. Instantly, he stooped down to pick the remains of the plate up but nearly cut himself while trying to do so.

Mrs Hudson stared at him in amazement. "Really, Mr Holmes, what has gotten into you today?" she asked incerdulously, sweeping the broken plate up with a nearby dustpan and brush professionally.

_It's got nothing to do with me_ Holmes thought darkly. _It's what I've been **reminded **of._

* * *

Watson's eyes were itching with tiredness. Finally placing the scalpel down, he came to the frustrating conclusion that he had not achieved much in- he looked down at his golden wrist watch momentarily and nearly fell back in shock- 9:30 am? He'd been in here for the whole day! However, his progress was disappointingly minimal- the years of dirt had been rather difficult to shift. He only managed to view from the photograph that it had been taken beside a writing desk; he hadn't even reached the person that was actually _in _the picture. God, what was he meant to figure out from a stupid writing desk...

Oh. Watson squinted at the photograph, then looked down at the wood the photograph lay on. It was _this_ very writing desk! The photgraph had been taken in _this _very room; _his _old room. Feeling quite pleased with himself, now, Watson knew that this day had not been spent in vain, he had gotten somewhere, even if his new found discovery wasn't much. He stretched, deciding to stop "work" for the meantime, snuffing out a candle situated on the desk, before getting ready for bed.

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In typical "Holmes" timing, at the exact point in time when Watson's candle was extinguished, Sherlock's was lit. He stared at the flickering flame for what felt like an eternity, until the bright image was engrained in his mind forever more and his eyes stared to sting slightly, caused by the strong colours the flame held.

If you could peer into his soul, you would see what the body wasn't betraying. Despite his being appearing somewhat calm and at ease, a terrifying self conflict was raging in him, lead by fear.

_Come on now, I thought you'd got over this _he scolded himself. _It won't hurt you._

Slowly, he passed a nervous finger through the flame so quickly that his skin did not burn. He flinched at what he had just done, before tutting at himself. _Stop being so pathetic._

Even more slowly, he reached out his finger to repeat the action and words stared to form in his head, until they became deafingly loud, swarming round him like unforgiving, furious wasps:

_Oh My God! Fire! No, NO!_

And then: _There was someone still bloody inside, you idiot!_

Soon came the worst of all: _Screaming...screaming... **screaming!**_

**_FIRE! FIRE!_**

Holmes hissed in pain- withdrawing his finger sharply, noticing that it had turned an angry red. Shaking it quickly, then shoving it in his mouth to get rid of the pain. _Physical _pain, please bear in mind, won't you?

For the screams and voices were still swirling within him. And they would not be silenced.


	4. Chapter 3: Is It Poisoned, Nanny?

**A/N: ... I haven't read any of the Sherlock Holmes book(s) or watched the old TV Series, all characterisation is based on the 2009 film, starring Robert Downy Jr and Jude Law etc And **_italics _**represent a character's unspoken thoughts. Hope you enjoy! And thanks for the reviews! :D****

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_Chapter 3- Is It Poisoned, Nanny?_

_There, that's perfect, if I do say so myself._

With a final triumphant polish, Mrs Hudson admired the shining appearance of the long dining table that she had been working on for the best part of..oh, well she'd been working on it for a considerable length of time, indeed. The table was rarely used- with the exception of an important guest arriving to the household. However, the table had not been cleaned thoughroughly for a while and she believed it was high time for the task to be done.

Mrs Hudson glanced up at the small clock on the mantelpiece fleetingly and did a double take. _Good lord- is that the time already?_

The smaller hand of the two was pointing proudly at the numeral "3". Gathering herself quickly, the woman made to go to her quarters. But, just as she was about to do so, Gladstone skittered into the room in a most out of character way, making a low, concerned whining noise from deep inside his throat.

"Alright, Gladstone, alright. Calm down. Has he forgotten to feed you?"

By way of replying, the dog began to pull with much force on her white pinny. "Really, Gladstone! Stop it _now_," she told him firmly.

He at once desisited, but ran out to the corridor, then stopped, almost as if he were expecting her to follow.

_I tell you _she thought as the pet lead her to their unknown destination _if this is for nothing, that dog's had it._

* * *

Soon, Gladstone stopped- oh and it _would _be right outside Sherlock Holmes' door, wouldn't it?

"Oh, if he's playing that violin again..." She trailed off when she realised that she could hear not a whisper of the faintest music coming from the room. Hand on the door handle, Mrs Hudson montioned for Gladstone to stay by her side but the dog's ears drooped and he soon turned and walked straight back the way he had come. _Probably going to sleep in the living room..._

Without bothering to knock, Mrs Hudson pushed the door open and, at first, could see nothing particularly out of the ordinary in the scene she witnessed. Yes, Holmes was up at an unnatural hour, but what could you expect from someone as "busy" as him? Yes, the curtains were open and the man was staring at the unusually small sliver of the crescent moon that glowed in a weirdly dull way...But wait...

Mrs Hudson silently took a step forward and her eyes widened a little. Was he shaking? Surely not. However, it appeared as if he were suffering the effects of a nasty bout of some sort of flu, at least the symptoms of being out in the bitter cold. No, he was certainly shaking- there was no denying that. It was astounding for her to see; to see this man that was constantly full of self control.

"...Mr Holmes?" she asked worriedly, yet quietly.

The transformation in him from the point where she had spoken his name was nothing short of incredible. His shoulders straightened, his muscles relaxed and everything about him seemed to ooze something close to complete peace and perfection. He turned cleanly and effortlessly to face her and questioned her in turn calmly: "Mrs Hudson?"

Not giving up so easily, she stated clearly, "What is the matter, sir?"

The detective looked directly into her eyes and with no hint of fidegeting, replied confidently, "Why, nothing at all, my dear."

Ah, now, in normal circumstances, she would have believed the subtle lie but this time, she had seen herself the evidence that something, indeed, something was wrong. "Would you like a cup of tea?" As everyone knows, most woman strongly believe that a cup of tea cures anything.

"No, thank you. It would only keep me up for even longer."

_Did he just utter the words "thank you"? **Without** any form of sarcasm?_

"Some water, then, at least," Mrs Hudson tried and before he could refuse it, she left to get it in the kitchen.

When she returned with it, Holmes was sitting on the bottom of his bed, hands tapping on his knees in a rythmical but most uneasy manner. She handed the large glass to him and when she did, he looked up and smiled...unconvincingly.

"Is it poisoned, Nanny?" he asked her weakly. That cheeky, stereotypical "school boy" look was not smothered upon his face, making his words seem rather hesitant and reserved. She longed for the signature look to be with him again, even though she usually despised it. The look showed to her that all was well with Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly sitting down next to him, Mrs Hudson said in an "I can read you like a book" kind of tone, "You're not going to tell me what is wrong, are you?"

He shook his head without looking at her and his entire presence seemed to change instantly, like he knew there was no point in trying to hide the feelings in him. His shoulders sagged and all the energy seemed to have been sapped mercissly from him.

There was a preganant pause in which the two could hear nothing at all apart from each other's awkward breathing. Mrs Hudson thought and thought and came to the conclusion that Holmes' could only be like this because of one thing: his heart had been broken.

"I assure, sir, there's plenty more fish in the sea."

He laughed then but the sound was so much like a pain ridden whisper. "You wonderful, naiive woman," he said, though she had to strain to hear him. Then he looked at her properly. "This is not about a lover."

Unsure of how to react, Mrs Hudson wrapped one arm around him warmly. _Is this how it feels to have your own child? An actual child?_

They were silent for a long while, until the lady felt a weight drop unto her shoulder. She looked down and saw that Holmes' eyes were closed, he had fallen asleep quite completely.

In much the way a mother would do to her son, she guided Holmes to his bed. He followed her willingly and kept his eyes shut as he sank into the pillows.

"G'nite, Mr Holmes," she said softly, picking up the glass of water before it spilled its contents onto the poor man's bedsheets. "I pray you feel better in the morning."

She departed and the detective tried to give her some heavily slurred form of thanks but didn't know exactly how to. Sinking even more into the depths of unconsciousness, Holmes still managed to make an important mental note: To give his nanny a ruddy well deserved pay rise.


End file.
